Chapter Text
Sam all but cried out her pleasure as his turgid length entered her again—always so impossibly big, in the way she’d only dreamed of.
“Babygirl, you look like you’re going to cum,” Alex growled, hands spreading her thighs even wider. “Are you going to cum on Daddy’s cock, baby?”
“Please—Alex, I need it harder.”
Her request was met with a solid slap to the ass, making her squeal with delight—or pain—it was hard to tell.
“That’s not what you call me, is it? Use your words.”
Sam swallowed, shivering as he languidly thrust between her thighs. It was obvious he wouldn’t give her what she needed unless she finally admitted it—that she’d fantasized about this very moment.
“Daddy,” she cried finally, voice sweet as her defenses broke down. “Daddy please make me cum—
Rey tucked her e-reader back into her purse as the bus rolled to a stop. The brisk morning air provided a small mercy against her heated cheeks—she hadn’t meant to open up her latest trashy romance read on the bus, but the empty back row provided a privacy she was more than willing to take advantage of on the way to work. A little thrill to have her dirty secret in public; she’d fallen asleep last night wondering when Sam and Alex would finally admit they had a burgeoning attraction between them. Engrossed in her theories on the novella’s ending (would they fuck in the lake house or his office next?) Rey quickly covered ground to her building.
Her mornings usually started the same way: part of the early crowd at Resistance Industries, the ones who trudge in before sunrise to the hum of computers and the keurig in the break room, eager to take advantage of the cozy silence.
The best part of being early is the quiet, distraction-less aura of her corner office, lights dimmed for comfort. Coffee warm at her fingertips, Rey types in her password and waits for the computer to load up her emails.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
The pleasant chime comes through her headphones; fifteen new messages since she left the office last week. Not too bad, all things considered—most of them from the Akbar audit, which Rey isn’t even handling. The company picnic flyer, passive aggressively reminding everyone (Poe) it’s an alcohol-free, kid-friendly event. Rose asking her to sign off on a few items, all neatly prepped to Resistance caliber. A purchase confirmation—
Huh.
Rey yawns, scrolling over. She doesn’t remember buying anything. A phishing scam, maybe? Company emails are tightly controlled, filtered through IT to protect all the sensitive information they send back and forth. External emails are rare enough that it should’ve been flagged already.
Thank you for your recent purchase of: Daddy Dearest on Amazong Reader.
“Shit. Shit shit shit.”
Rey deletes the email before she can think coherently—a horrible noise comes from her throat as her inbox rings through a few more identical messages. It had been a long holiday with no plans, and she’d devoured several raunchy titles in the span of just three days.
She wasn’t looking for a Pulitzer. Just some alone time with her vibrator and a warm bath, biting on her tongue so the neighbors wouldn’t hear a certain word through the wall. In fact, her clit was still recovering; too sore for a trouser seam, she’d elected for a dress today.
It was stupid—to forget which email she was signed up under. She should’ve noticed after the first title, not the fourth. Now the receipts sat like scarlet letters, shameful evidence of the very explicit stuff she got off to. It was hardly any better than logging onto pornhub during lunch.
Face pink, Rey quickly scrolls through each email and deletes them all. Full of nervous energy, she’s left to pace through her office, trying to determine if it was better to quit now or wait for someone to whistleblow. Death seemed amicable when compared to being sat down in the conference room and being told by Ackbar and Leia that daddy kink books were not an appropriate use of her on-the-clock time.
And when the coffee hits, Rey remembers what HR noted during orientation: that deleted emails are never truly gone, neatly sorted into their own little folder, collecting dust until the end of time.
Rey goes through the five stages of grief before lunch, wiping away tears as she revamps her LinkedIn profile. Her photo is cool, clean, and professional, her smile wide and earnest. It was too bad she’d never be seen as a confident employee again, laughed out of her own industry.
“Niima?”
There’s a shadow in the shape of a veritable oak tree blocking the door to her office: Ben Solo from IT. The color drains from her face; his expression is made of stone, as per usual. The man had won most likely to share a smile at last year’s staff awards as a prank.
And no, he hadn’t smiled during his acceptance speech.
“Hi—Ben. What’s up?” she answers weakly, clicking out of her web browser. Her email pops up instead, mocking her. Dirty little secret.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking uncomfortable. He’s so cruelly attractive: like all those Byronic men from English class. Taller than what’s good for him, so wide he must get his shirts tailored. She likes him best right before he goes for a haircut: when it curled adorably around his ears, shaggy and worn in around the collar.
She hasn’t been harboring a secret crush on him for ages, not at all. It would be ridiculous to admit that once during a presentation, she missed nearly fifteen minutes of slides because she was too busy watching his hands curled around a Ticonderoga. A normal sized pencil had no business looking that small in the hands of someone she was never going to sleep with. It just wasn’t fair.
Bitterly, she wonders if he’d like to be called daddy. He certainly had the demeanor for it. At nearly ten years her senior, she still got butterflies whenever he’d wrinkle his nose at her pop culture references. It didn’t help that he wore glasses. Or that he was already sporting seven grey hairs. She’d counted.
He squirms a bit, face wrinkling: obviously wants to be free of her presence as quickly as possible. “Could you...come by my office at two? For a quick meeting?”
“Not a problem,” her mouth is suddenly very dry. “What about?” she asks, voice cracking.
He stares at the wall behind her head. “Just want to go over some computer stuff. I had a couple...flags come up in my overnight scan.”
I’m dead. I’m dead meat. I should just grab a box for my things before lunch. Was it the honorable thing to do—to sit through her reprimand? Listen as her career went down the toilet, wrapped in a neat pink bow? Or should she leave beforehand and spare them all the embarrassment?
“Red flags? On my computer?” she answers, exceptionally squeaky, wringing her hands under her desk. “Strange. It’s never happened before.”
“Unusual activity. Yeah. Thought we should look into it.”
There’s a long, pointed silence in which they both pretend the other person doesn’t exist.
Her phone has the good grace to stop her from digging her own grave; the piercing ring makes them both jump in surprise.
“You should take that—“
“I should take this—“
They both speak at once, and Rey grimaces, feeling sweat begin to gather under her arms. Talk about mortifying—Ben looked like he was going to throw up if he had to face her for a moment longer. She couldn’t blame him; filthy taboo fantasies weren’t exactly everyone’s cup of tea.
Rey glances at the offending device still ringing at her elbow, reaching for it with clammy hands. The number is for a client, so she really does need to take it. She’s not going to slack even at her last few hours with Resistance. Maybe she’d be blacklisted for positions within the company, but there was the off chance they might pity her—agree to stay on her resume. Rey resigns herself to suffering her fate.
“I can do two for sure. Your office?”
When Rey glances up, he’s gone.
At 1:55, She takes the stairs to burn off some energy—she’d gone to the bathroom nearly three times before noon in an attempt to towel off the cold sweat from her body, all of it in vain; seeing as now that she climbed another flight, she remained a nervous wreck. Solo’s office was several higher than her own, grouped with the rest of IT. It was a long climb to contemplate one’s termination.
He’s going to eat me alive with that broody stare. How cruel of a man he was, to let her squirm all morning before the axe dropped.
Maybe he was gathering a larger file on her. More evidence of her transgressions. That time she stole Cassian’s Twinkie from the breakroom. All the paper she wasted at lunch making airplanes to send down the stairwell. The afternoon she and Rose had glued googly-eyes to Finn’s stapler.
She’s already practicing her speech about how she didn’t know it was super glue and not regular glue, the bottles really did look very similar—when she finds herself at Ben’s door, peeking around the frame.
“Niima,” his eyes meet hers over his monitor: his office is dark and cozy, mostly sparse. He has one of those miniature zen gardens on his desk, and though she can’t imagine him neatly combing the sand and nudging the pebble delicately, it is perfectly groomed. “Come in. Sit. Close the door behind you.”
Rey hates how badly she shivers at his instruction.
When she’s finally settled, all she can think about is how quiet it is—the walls here are thick, no doubt. She can practically hear her blood pumping in her ears.
“I just want to start by, uh,” he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, turning his monitor to the side so she can observe the screen, “-showing you a few things that I found. Let me know if you recognize them at all. My theory is that your email was attached to a phishing scam—as you can see, the content is pretty...suggestive—”
Ben swallows audibly—Rey watches as pink crawls up his neck in blotchy, lickable patterns. She turns dutifully to observe the screen instead, but it blurs before her eyes: purchase confirmations swim on the horizon, nearly spelled out in LED lights. Daddy Dearest. Obedience At Night. Control’s Mistress. Sweet Misbehavior. The photorealistic covers featuring bodies twisted in various states of undress—in one case, a schoolgirl uniform.
Memories come tumbling through her brain—each one of them had gotten her off in some way, and now her abdomen clenched at the reminder, panties growing slick. She and Ben Solo were looking right at the source of her latest orgasms. One of them had made her come so hard she wailed.
“—Meaning that you’re very likely to investigate. Click on something you shouldn’t. They’re flashy and easy to fall prey to. Completely understandable if you stumbled upon it. A little ridiculous what scammers will do these days.” Ben loosens his collar, looking frayed at the edges.
The gears in Rey’s mind are clogged with anxiety, but something about the gentle way he’s leading the conversation slips through.
Ben Solo is attempting to cover her ass.
“I just need to know if you’re at all familiar with how this...uh, stuff, ended up in your inbox. Obviously all very fake, so if nothing comes to mind, I’ll just file it...away. No harm done.”
The emails aren’t fake—they’re as polished and kosher as can get. All the links are set up to go back to the main website, not a scammy page wheedling for credit card information. Her address is listed in her payment confirmation.
“Obviously.” She repeats, brittle.
“Obviously. Of course.”
If Ben is working behind the scenes to make up the fabricated story of the century so that she won’t lose her job—
That also means he knows. He could pick up a sample of any of the books. Hell, even the descriptions were damning. All of them plotless, easy reads, illicitly and explicitly laying out that Rey liked to call men daddy in bed. That she liked it rough, liked to be spanked and choked and thrown around, made to get on her knees.
She slides down in her chair, staring at the floor in order to goad it into swallowing her alive.
Ben clears his throat, exiting out of the screen as if Rey’s face hadn’t just burst into flame. “Well, that settles it. Weird one-off. I’ll update the firewall and make sure it doesn’t happen again. Thanks for coming up, Rey.”
There’s a hundred things she could say, but they all feel wrong, somehow. It’s easier to stand on shaky legs, push in her chair, and nod.
“Thank you, Ben.” She says quietly, all but darting for the door. “I owe you.”
“Rey,” he calls, voice careful, like he’s afraid of frightening her. He continues in a whisper, looking rather beleaguered. “Just— make sure you update the account. Please .”
Rey bites her lip, nodding and chastised, unable to muster the courage to do much else but clench her skirt and tremble with relief.
“Yes, Ben,” she assures, breathless.
And if Rey hadn’t fled the scene, she would’ve seen his knuckles go positively white with tension at the sound of her voice.